


Je Veux Ta Revanche

by BlueSkyFirefly



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Bruises, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut, Spanking, Violent Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-07-07 07:34:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15903768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueSkyFirefly/pseuds/BlueSkyFirefly
Summary: This is based on an anonymous post from footballconfessions.tumblr.com, which read "After the World Cup final I wanted to put on a France jersey and let Dalic take it all out on me in the locker room, then take me back to his hotel room to kiss the bruises better."I couldn't think of much else after reading that, so I decided to write about it.Reader is a Croatia fan who decides to put on a France jersey and allow Zlatko Dalic to release some of his frustration on her.





	Je Veux Ta Revanche

**Author's Note:**

> For the last time, this is very explicit, and is basically self-indulgent porn without plot.

The blue jersey feels wrong. You’re almost tempted to pull it off, don your red and white checks again and head out to celebrate with the rest of the Croatia supporters, but you quickly talk yourself out of it. This is your chance. Everything is going to plan. Now you just have to wait for-

“Hello?”

You spin around to see who spoke, and find yourself speechless. For one thing, your intentions in being there would be hard to explain. For another thing, you’re struck dumb by the man in front of you.

You knew he was attractive, but you weren’t prepared for the sight before you. The only lucid thought in your head is one you’ve had a hundred times before, but now with more depth and clarity: _you would do things for this man that you’d do for no other_. He’s taller than you imagined, with dark brown eyes that seem to hold in their depths both fire and ice. His shirt, transparent from the rain, clings to his body and his hair sends the occasional droplet cascading down his face.

You open your mouth to speak, but only manage his name. “ _Zlatko…_ ”

His brow furrows. “Do I know you?” he asks, his voice full of reservation. You shake your head, and step closer to him.

“No,” you say with new found confidence. “But I don’t have to know you to know how you’re feeling right now. I can see the frustration in your eyes. I want to help you release some of that.” By now your voice is barely more than a whisper, and he closes the distance between you, standing so close that you can smell his cologne, his face inches from yours.

“What exactly do you mean by that?” he asks, and you do the unthinkable. You throw your arm around his neck and kiss him, your fingers finding a grip of his hair. He pulls away and bundles you back into the locker room you came out of, slamming the door behind you.

“ _Are you insane?!_ ” he hisses, and you smirk back at him.

“I think so,” you say with a slight giggle, and his own facial expression softens too. Slight amusement flashes across his face before he fixes you with a look that brings to mind the expression _“if looks could kill…”_

“What do you want from me?” he asks you, his voice somewhere between a whisper and a growl.

You lift your hand and caress his face, your thumb tracing his bottom lip. “Isn’t that obvious, dragi? I want you to take it out on me. _I’m begging you to take it all out on me._ ”

This time, it’s him who initiates the kiss. His soft lips connect with yours, tentatively, nothing like the clashing of teeth in the corridor. You moan gently against his lips and feel him smirk against yours. He takes a step back and looks you up and down, undressing you with his eyes.

“Come here,” he says, “bend over with your hands on the bench”.  You comply almost too quickly, desperate for his touch. He pushes your skirt up around your waist, and you hear him catch his breath. “Fuck…” he sighs, his hands caressing your cheeks. You throw your hips back towards him almost involuntarily, but he walks away.

You let out a quiet whine as you watch him walk towards the door, but to your relief he simply locks it and turns back to face you.

“Now I can do anything I like to you, for as long as I like,” he says, his voice smooth but laden with danger.

“Yes,” you say in a voice barely more than a whisper. “That’s why I’m here. I want – I _need_ you to do whatever you want to me.”

“And if what I want is to break you?” he asks, not even trying to disguise the darkness in his voice any more.

“ _Then break me_ ,” you breathe, and he knows you mean it.

He walks slowly back towards you, never taking his eyes off you until he’s standing behind you again.

You bite your lip so hard you think it might bleed, trying to contain yourself as you hear him unbuckling his belt. Within seconds, you feel the biting pain of the leather striking your bare ass. Before you can respond, it’s followed by another, harder blow, and you cry out as your body is ravaged by the perfect combination of pleasure and pain. A third loud crack echoes around the room. You claw at the bench with your fingernails, gasping for breath as he slowly drags the belt across your tender skin. You’re expecting, no, craving, the next one and he knows it.

Even without looking at him you can feel the sadistic smile on his face as he teases you.

“I want you to ask for it,” he says, and you could swear his smirk is audible. You take a deep, shaky breath in and exhale slowly.

“ _Please_ ,” you cry softly, your voice shaking.

He seems satisfied with that, and you hear the belt swishing through the air before cracking across your skin one last time.

“That’s enough,” he growls. “One for each fucking goal.”

Your body trembles as he traces the red marks with his fingertips. His touches wander down to your inner thighs, making you moan softly. You instantly regret showing how much you want him – he’s going to torture you, and you know it. His own breath catches in his throat as his fingers wander a little too far and he feels how wet you are, how desperate you are for his touch.

He pulls you up roughly by the hair, earning a small yelp of surprise from you, and turns you to face him. He stares at you for a second before kissing you roughly. It takes you by surprise, and drags you deeper into your state of wanton desire. The only thing you’re aware of is him, how his tongue is in your mouth and his hands are pulling your hair and grasping at your body and _God, how much you want him_.

When his lips finally leave yours, you gasp for breath, and suddenly his lips are on your neck. You moan into his hair, your voice wavering as he gently bites you, sending electric shocks through your body. Satisfied with your reaction, he bites you harder before sucking on the soft skin of your neck until he’s satisfied that he’s marked you. Marked you as _his_.

He leaves another hickey on your thigh, on his knees while you brace yourself against the wall, his warm breath dangerously close to where you want his gorgeous face most, and it takes every ounce of self-control you have just to restrain yourself from clutching at his hair and redirecting him yourself. He looks up at you with his dark brown eyes, and despite all of your efforts to remain composed, you feel your knees grow weak. Maybe he knows, or maybe it’s sheer luck, but he chooses that moment to stand up and pin you against the wall, one hand around your throat.

“I want you to undress for me,” he commands, tightening his grip on your throat while he speaks before releasing you. You take off your skirt, then that damn France NT jersey, until you’re wearing nothing but your red heels. He pushes you roughly against the wall and takes his time exploring your body with his hands and mouth, gently at first, until he’s encouraged by your heavy breathing and moans and starts to lose his inhibitions, leaving hickeys and scratches scattered across your body, and what’s sure to be a bruise in the shape of a bite mark on your shoulder.

When he finally parts his lips from your body, he takes a step back, unbuttons his trousers and with one swift movement, allows them to fall around his ankles followed by his underwear while you hastily remove his shirt. He lifts you off the ground, his arms under your knees, supporting your body against the wall, and looks into your eyes as he enters you.

You sigh deeply, your eyes rolling back in pleasure as he fills you. He starts slowly, fucking you with long, deep strokes, but as you both lose control he picks up the pace, fucking you relentlessly against the wall.

You drag your fingernails across his bare back, your weak whimpers slowly turning into long, shaky cries of ecstasy as he brings you closer to orgasm. Just as you’re about to climax, he laughs, a quiet, dirty, sadistic laughter in your ear. “I don’t think so, princess,” he husks in your ear, before pulling away from you. You involuntary let out a whimper of confusion and disappointment, but have no time to contemplate it as he roughly pushes you to your knees.

You understand immediately and push your hair out of your face, looking expectantly up at him. You take him into your mouth, never breaking eye contact. “Don’t… stop…” he groans, grinding out the words as you pleasure him, but you have no intention of stopping anything. You’re certain that you’d keep doing this forever, if he’d let you. Suddenly, his body tenses and he grabs your hair, pushing your mouth onto his full length as he reaches his climax. He cries out shamelessly as he comes, and overcome by passion and your willingness to do anything to please him, you gladly swallow everything he gives.

He slowly untangles his fingers from your hair, and you slowly get to your feet, shaking slightly and even more desperate for the release that only he could give you. However, to your dismay, he wipes the sweat from his brow and reaches for his shirt.

“Dragi…” you sigh, more pleading in your voice than you’d intended.

He ignores you and continues dressing himself while you watch helplessly. It feels like watching someone cover your favourite sculpture with a sheet, and yet you remain transfixed. When he’s fully dressed, he approaches you and kisses you, more gently this time.

“I have to go, the team are waiting for me. Oh God, the _President_ is probably waiting for me. But take this…” he reaches into his pocket and produces a black card that you recognise as a hotel room key card.

“It’s room 139. You should be able to slip in unnoticed, the rest of the floor is taken by the players and you’ll be there long before them. Wait for me there.”

There’s an unspoken promise in his words, and you nod your head before kissing him one more time.  “I’ll see you there,” you murmur into his ear before turning and leaving.

The moment you get into the cab to the hotel, your whole body is wracked with paranoia. _“What if he knows?”_ screams the voice in your head as you tell the cab driver where you’re going. _“They’re looking at you, all of them,”_ it whispers as you walk through the hotel lobby. _“They can see the bruises, your mascara is smudged, they know…”_ you shake your head in an attempt to quieten it, and it works until you’re in the corridor, walking towards his room. _“What if there are cameras? What if someone opens a door, or ends up on the wrong floor?”_

After three attempts, thanks to your shaking hands, you slot the card into the receiver and push open the door, ducking into the room. You head straight for the bathroom and pull off your shirt, looking in the mirror. You admire the various shades of red and purple across your skin, the physical reminders that at least for a while, you were entirely at his mercy.

You wipe the make-up smudges from your face, pull a hairbrush from your bag and make yourself more presentable, before taking off the rest of your clothes and making your way to the bed to wait for him. You absentmindedly scroll through your social media feeds while you wait, past picture after picture of both the French and Croatian national teams. Suddenly, you freeze.

You stare at your phone, seeing the face that had not an hour before been looking down at you while fucking you mercilessly, being caressed by the President. The next picture shows him being tightly hugged by Luka Modric, and you can't help but laugh to yourself at the absurdity of the situation. That couldn’t have even been an hour before…

You don’t have any more time to dwell on it as you hear a key card being swiped outside, then the click of the door handle.

He walks into the room, running his fingers through his thick black hair, and closes the door behind him before looking up at you. He approaches you slowly, almost hesitantly, until you stand up and walk towards him too. He lifts you off the ground, and you instinctively wrap your legs around his waist, kissing him deeply. He carries you back to the bed and throws you down onto the mattress, making you laugh. Your giggles dissipate into heavy breathing as he runs his fingers from your ankles, up the inside of your calves and over your thighs. He follows his touches with feather light kisses, focusing on each hickey and bruise he’d made on your skin until he’s delicately kissing the deep purple marks on your inner thighs.

You sigh his name out loud, your fingers desperately grasping at his hair. He looks into your eyes and bites his lip as he slowly runs his fingers up your thigh again, but this time he doesn’t stop. His hand wanders between your legs, and his breath wavers as he realises how wet you are. He groans under his breath as he enters you with one finger. “You’re so wet..” he gasps, and you decide not to bother even trying to form a coherent reply. You simply nod your head and moan softly in response, mentally begging him to give you more, but you know this man does not do instant gratification.

He stands up and starts to undress, slowly of course, making sure you become more needy by the second. He’s clearly basking in the satisfaction of having you trembling and whimpering in desperation, watching you with a smirk as your own hand wanders between your legs.

Suddenly, he’s on you, pinning your hands above your head as he brushes his lips against the hickeys on your neck, then the bruises on your ribs, before leaving a trail of kisses from between your breasts, downwards, until he’s looking up at you from between your thighs.

“God, _please_ , Zlatko,” you whisper, your voice shaking, and this time he doesn’t tease you. He grabs your hips, pulls you towards him and gives you what you need most. You entwine your fingers in his hair and cry out his name over and over again like a sacred mantra as he licks you, his lips and tongue bringing you closer and closer to the edge as his silky hair brushes the soft skin of your inner thighs. The soft tickling feeling, the mind blowing pleasure of his mouth on you and the dull pain of his grip on your bruised hipbones fuse together into the most intense climax you’ve ever experienced.

As your orgasm fades, you let go of his hair and lie, trembling, gasping for breath on the bed, but any hope of having time to recollect your thoughts is lost when you feel him on top of you, kissing you deeply, coating your lips and tongue with your own taste.

Seconds later, he’s inside you, and it’s nothing like the merciless fucking he gave to you earlier. He’s sensual and slow, occasionally pausing to catch your gaze or lightly kiss your lips.

You wrap your arms and legs around him, your bodies moving as one. You cling to him, slowly coming undone in each other's arms as you give and take from each other. It's not about the World Cup any more, and despite the warm sting that remains on your buttocks and the marks on your skin, it almost feels like it never was. It's different now, and all that matters is him.

You feel the moment when the last of his control gives out, he gives into his pleasure entirely, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he lets himself go, his body shaking slightly as he comes deep inside you. The intensity of it wrenches another crashing wave of pleasure from your body. Feelings you can’t describe soar through you, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your voice gives out, cracking as you try to call out his name one last time.

You lie together, your head on his chest, both unsure what to do or say. Eventually, you realise it might be best to say nothing at all. You kiss his cheek and get up, heading towards the bathroom to collect your clothes, but when you come back, he’s standing before you in his black silk boxer shorts with a Croatia jersey in his hand.

“Wearing this wretched thing,” he says with a hint of amusement as he pulls the French one from your grip, “may not end well considering there are probably throngs of the boys’ fans outside. Take this.”

“They’re your fans too, you know, dragi,” you smile, and he tenderly strokes your hair as he returns your smile. “I won’t need the jersey though. I have one in my bag… the French one was all for your benefit.”

He laughs and shakes his head, then steps aside and watches you dress yourself before doing the same. He steps forward and pulls you into a tight hug, kissing the top of your head. “I don’t know what we’re supposed to do here, to be honest,” he admits with a soft chuckle. “Do we stay in touch?”

Every fibre of your being wants to scream yes, but you look up at him and with every ounce of self-restraint in your body, you say what you know you must. “No.”

“No?”

“No… tonight was magical. We should keep it as a memory, not make it into something complicated.”

He nods with a smile that seems insincere, but you put that down to your own wishful thinking. “I agree,” he says. “ _Dovidenja, ljepotice_.”

“ _Dovidenja_ ,” you reply, praying your voice doesn’t shake. It doesn’t.

You kiss him one last time before turning and walking towards the door. You know if you look back, you won’t be able to leave it at this, so you don’t.

“ _Volim te_ ,” you whisper under your breath, knowing he’ll never hear it, as you open the door and walk out.

You walk down the corridor, your mind swirling with a thousand different thoughts and emotions, when suddenly a voice cuts through the internal mayhem:   
“Can I help you?”

You spin around to find that you recognise the man who spoke. He’s unmistakable, with his tall, muscular body, elfin face and blonde ponytail. _“Vida?”_

“That’s me,” he grins, looking you up and down. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Huh?” you squeak, resisting the urge to run.

“You look like you’ve just been in a fight or something,” he says, his grin fading into a look of genuine concern. _Fuck_.

“OH. Oh. No,” you stammer, shaking your head frantically. “Everything was… entirely consensual.”

Vida’s grin returns, even wider than before, if possible. _Shit. Why did you say that?! Why not just lie and say it was a fight? Or you fell? Or literally anything else?_

“No judgement here, draga,” he laughs. “Just get out of here before Dalic sees you.”

You involuntarily let out a small yelp of surprise when Vida mentions _him_.

“I’m serious,” says Vida, more quietly, getting closer as if to avoid being heard.  “I mean, he shouldn’t care, it’s not as if we’re playing any more, but he’s really serious about the whole ‘no women in the rooms’ thing. I’ll respect your privacy and not ask who you were with, but he wouldn’t be so nice, and you’d both be toast. _Go._ ”

You don’t need to be told twice. You hop into the nearest elevator, saluting in Domo’s direction, and as the doors close, you smirk to yourself.

_If only he knew._


End file.
